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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28385970">burn out when you want</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge'>SyntheticRevenge</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(feel like everything I write has that tag), (implied but.), Aromantic Sasha James, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Relationship Study, Requited Unrequited Love, Sasha doesn't understand people all that well and Tim's just really sad and angry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:21:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28385970</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tim starts at the Magnus Institute, he hasn’t cleaned his flat in three months and hasn’t spoken to his parents in two. Living is just a means to an end, and he’s fiercely clawing himself towards that end.</p><p>It's not like meeting Sasha fixes <i>everything</i>, but it's not like it hurts, either.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>burn out when you want</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I really love timsasha a whole lot and tried my very best to write something that did them justice. Hope you enjoy! Title's from Let's Find An Out by Snail Mail.</p><p>CW: alcohol, grief, inexplicit references to genitalia/sex</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Tim starts at the Magnus Institute, he hasn’t cleaned his flat in three months and hasn’t spoken to his parents in two. Living is just a means to an end, and he’s fiercely clawing himself towards that end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only interviewed for this job in particular because Robert Smirke was thought to be in contact with Jonah Magnus after he retired and went a bit weird. It’s fucking tenuous, but it’s all he has, and if he can’t use his anthropology degree and years of experience in a job he desperately loved for </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then what’s he even good for?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He probably wouldn’t be here if he didn’t get fired, sure, but his dad always told him to walk everything off, so, fine, he’s walking it off. He walked losing Danny off. Ran, really. Didn’t process, didn’t grieve, just threw himself facefirst into the freezing-hot process of figuring out how to get revenge. He deserved to get fired, besides, he was barely paying attention to anything, drinking at work, it’s...he’s determined to do better, now, because he needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>a </span>
  </em>
  <span>job, and maybe he needs this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So. Fine. First day. He hasn’t had a new job in...well, five years, really, since he started his last one. Since Danny, he’s lost his magic with people. He used to be magnetic, he thinks. Maybe it was his smile, or something, but people used to come up to him and say hello. He had all kinds of pick-up tactics and mistaken wasted confessions of love and glowing compliments lavished upon him, etc, and y’know, it was sort of fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s pretty sure that’s all gone now. He’s not expecting his coworkers to like him. He doesn’t need them to. If all goes how he half-hopes it will, it’s not like they’ll need to know him for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s shown to a desk. Slides his bag off his shoulders, starts pulling out his laptop. A gentle but brutal hangover hovers in his temples, and he tries to shrug it off and swallow it down. He has to do better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna introduce yourself, or…” a voice next to him says, a hint of amusement and warmth to it. He jolts up. Hadn’t even noticed the woman sitting next to him til this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, sorry,” Tim says, laughing a bit nervously, which feels deeply wrong. Nervous laughter was never really part of the repertoire before. That’s for people who aren’t confident in themselves. He really does just have to learn how to walk again, doesn’t he. “Didn’t see you there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you missed someone as absolutely radiantly transfixing as me, how could I be?” the woman asks, smiling. “I’m Sasha.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim,” he says, trying to smile back. “I’m really preoccupied, I didn’t mean--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious,” Sasha says. “No sweat. I get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So does someone come tell me what I’m meant to be doing, or--” Tim asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, uh, it’s pretty laissez-faire around here, to be honest, but I don’t mind helping out,” Sasha says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She beckons a preoccupied-looking but quietly pretty man over, and he looks confused, but stutter-steps closer to them. “Yes?” he asks, softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim, this is Jon,” Sasha says, waving an arm at Jon. “Jon, Tim. Our new recruit, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We weren’t told there was going to be anyone new,” Jon says, looking to Sasha and squinting slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, when do we get told anything around here?” Sasha asks, shrugging. “We’re glad to have you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad to be here,” Tim says, smiling as much as he can manage. He finds it’s only </span>
  <em>
    <span>mostly</span>
  </em>
  <span> a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Tim’s thirtieth birthday, and Danny’s supposed to be here giving him endless hell for being an old man, like he always promised he would. But he’s not. So Tim looks himself in the mirror, says </span>
  <em>
    <span>cheers, you ancient fucker</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and slams four straight shots of the high-end scotch his parents sent him instead of calling or taking him out to dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They haven’t been interested in seeing him. He gets it. He’s the older brother. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was</span>
  </em>
  <span> the older brother. He was supposed to keep Danny safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(When they were little, Danny ran off at the beach and nearly drowned because Tim wasn’t paying attention. When they were teenagers, Danny nearly accidentally overdosed at a party because Tim was fucking someone in a closet and wasn’t there to look out for him. It was only a matter of time before something like this, really.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His parents never outright blamed him. He almost wishes they would’ve. Wishes that when they found him on the morning of the funeral blind drunk in the shower, fully clothed and soaking wet, best suit absolutely ruined, that one of them would’ve slapped him and told him he didn’t deserve his pain because it was his fault Danny died.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just desperately wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hold him accountable. Or if they’re not going to, he wishes they would treat him how they used to, back when he was their bright, dependable son with his respectable job and his nice flat in London and his string of interesting but ill-fated relationships.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s no point wishing for anything anymore, is there. So he gets drunk and hate-reads a boring book about circuses in the late 1800s and texts Sasha when he can’t focus on the words anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve been getting on well. Tim’s only been working at the Institute about three months now, but he’d consider her his best friend, easily. She’s odd, and definitely doesn’t understand people and their boundaries particularly well, but they seem to share a wavelength. It’s easy, between them. It’s one of the few friendships Tim’s had that actually feels constructive, like they add something to each other when they’re together.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>hey sashhhh</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>ms. james, if yr nasty</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok ms james then</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>oh so yr nasty then</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>u know it</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>what’s up timifer</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>it’s my 30th and i feel gross and old and full of shitty alcohol</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>you’re only two of those things</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>cool thnx</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>glad we had this talk</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>(img_2376.png)</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>oh those are your tits</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>um</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>wow</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>warn a guy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>sorry! just thought it might…</b>
</p><p>
  <b>happy birthday?</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, cheers</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(img_4982.png)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>oh those are Your tits</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>reciprocity</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>do unto others as they have done unto you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>if they’re into that</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>sorry I should’ve asked</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>no i mean. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>are you busy? doing birthday things? do you wanna go out?</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i mean i’m drunk</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>i am a bit tipsy myself but i see no reason this should stop us</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>alright then </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Work is really uncomfortable the day after they fuck. Mostly, they avoid each other, and it seems to confuse Jon to no end. He has to provide most of the light chat for the day, which is at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>different</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because ‘light chat’ for Jon is in-depth infodumping about lucid dreaming and the relative heart sizes of animals. Tim would probably engage, and maybe do a bit of his own infodumping (he thinks Jon would be super into culture-bound illnesses and also maybe alternative currency systems), but mostly he can’t stop shooting furtive looks at Sasha, thinking about her fruity kids-shampoo scented hair in his mouth, her lips on his neck, his hand between her thighs. Can’t stop thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh god, she’s seen my dick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s slept with a lot of people, but never a coworker, and never a friend he just wanted to stay friends with. That’s the sort of thing that, well, makes daily life uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right before he’s about to leave, Sasha sits down on his desk, and says “We shouldn’t have done that.” Tim’s about to respond, opens his mouth, but she keeps going. “But we did, so we have to move forward from it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed,” Tim says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t really want a relationship. That’s not my thing. I’m sorry,” Sasha says, and Tim’s heart sort of falls and shatters despite itself. He knew it wouldn’t work but, well. He’s always been a hopeless romantic, unfortunately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no need, all good,” Tim says, with the most amicable cool-guy smile he can muster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span> dick, though,” Sasha says, definitely too loud for a workplace environment, but Tim can’t help the snort that escapes him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I don’t know.” Sasha shrugs. “Probably we shouldn’t do that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably right,” Tim says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides, I mean, I know how your relationships go, so,” Sasha says, and Tim’s pretty sure she means it to be a joke, but it hits him in the ribs anyway. Leaves a weird taste in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I just mean--“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you know anything about my past relationships, and why do you think that’s an okay thing to comment on?” Tim asks. He doesn’t want to be angry with Sasha, but there are lines. And sure, he knows by now that she doesn’t understand those lines, but--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Social media?” Sasha says, shrugging again. “I don’t know, I like knowing things about people and I’m good at research.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Tim says, trying to figure out how to diplomatically phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t fucking do that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Uh. Well. Sort of invasive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you put something on the Internet, there’s nothing invasive about me accessing it,” Sasha says, making a </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, duh</span>
  </em>
  <span> face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim inhales, raising and then lowering a hand, because he knows he probably can’t argue with that in a way she’ll accept. “Did you read people’s journals at sleepovers as a kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t really get invited to sleepovers.” Sasha half-smiles. “Wonder why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim can’t help but choke a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Okay. Fair. Look, just. Don’t bring things up to people that they don’t know you know, yeah? Puts them on the defensive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try,” Sasha says. “Things slip out, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else do you know about me?” Tim asks, voice going a bit darker and gravellier than he’d like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know about your brother.” Sasha’s voice is soft and she looks away. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim nods, lips tightly pressed together. “Yeah, thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So. Friends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Tim says, sighing. “Yeah, of course. What would I be without the incomparable Sasha James?” He manages a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s gonna be weird, now, huh,” Sasha says, a bit quietly, looking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we both pretend really hard that it’s not, maybe it won’t be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a plan.” </span>
  <span>Sasha starts to slide off his desk, but stops. “Do you wanna hear my dirt on Jon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very badly, but unfortunately, I have principles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you keep going I’m gonna cave so </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re boring,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, you didn’t think so last night,” Tim says, smirking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought we were pretending it’s not weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you?” Sasha crosses her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim hates that he slept with Sasha before he properly fell in love with her, because now he has extremely clear mental pictures for all the stupid, heart-palpitation inducing little fantasies that burst like champagne bubbles in his brain. He forgot how much he fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> being in love, even if it’s an already-doomed relationship, even if it’s all out of order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts cataloguing meaningless accidental hand-brushes, watches her when she’s intently focusing so he can catch the lip-bites and the way she runs her hand back through her hair and shakes it out. It’s a pastime, and it’s fun, and it’s nice to feel good about </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> for once.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His focus starts drifting away from revenge. He actually has something worth lingering for. It’s not that he’s not still looking, of course he is, he’s going to destroy the thing that killed Danny if it’s the last thing he does (and he’s sure it will be), it’s just that he’s...less obsessive. He has other things to think about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like, for example, the stupid flowery monologue he keeps writing and rewriting in his head about how he knows there’s a lot of reasons he and Sasha shouldn’t be together but he doesn’t really care and he’s pretty sure they can make it work. It gets less flowery as it goes on, and more becomes a very unsexy sort of business plan, but it’s not like he’s ever gonna have a chance to deliver it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> good friends, like ‘get high and sleep in the same bed’ friends, like ‘in-depth sex life talk’ friends, like ‘change shamelessly in front of each other’ friends, and he’s not gonna jeopardize that, it’s...it’s not worth it. He’s happy to just be in love alone. It hurts, sure, but not more than it helps his life stay on a decent track.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha, though, she operates on her own frequency, and she always surprises him. They’re in the British Museum, and Tim’s talking extensively about neoclassicist architecture and how Smirke was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>master</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and did she know his brother actually took over the architectural direction on the museum when--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tells him she loves him, and he cuts himself off reflexively to say he loves her too. They just stand there blinking at each other, until Sasha says “Cool, glad we got that out of the way,” and moves on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t talk about it again. Tim’s too afraid to bring it up and overanalyzes which sort of love she meant, and besides, she seemed to think it was a complete thought, because she hasn’t mentioned it either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s...it’s fine. Just a bit more excitement and mystery. The Sasha James special.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(On his 31st birthday, while he was just trying to work, she put a bag over his head and dragged him into Artifact Storage and did a really stupid mock interrogation until he was laughing so hard he very nearly pissed himself. She’s an odd one. He loves her </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> much.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon gets promoted and he drags them both down to the basement with him, which Tim only resents a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit. It’s nice to have a job that he can make concrete progress on, so that’s something. He really loves the sense of completion, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is everything disorganized and nightmarish down in the Archives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also fun to follow up on statements. He loves getting to meet people, even if it’s in a weird, semi-traumatic context. It’s nice to flex his super atrophied charisma muscles with someone other than Sasha ‘I hacked our lovely new coworker’s Google Drive account did you know he writes poetry (it’s really bad)’ James.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other hand, he does, out of obligation, resent Jon for taking a job Sasha deserved. Tim never liked Elias, but the blatant patriarchal bias flips it into pure and simple vitriol. Tim’s always liked to believe that he runs on love, but anger seems to be the extra little burst of nitro that really makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not Jon’s fault, though, really, and he likes Jon. Or, did. Since he got the promotion he’s shifted from the standoffish, weird, hot nerd who tells people about special relativity and genuinely just enjoys saying the word ‘spaghettification’ to a standoffish, arrogant asshole who antagonizes innocent people just for existing. It’s actually sort of worrying, but Tim’s reactionary, and every time he thinks he wants to do something to maybe reach out and </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon, Jon does something utterly dickish and unnecessary, like yelling at Martin for accidentally spilling tea on a stack of papers and having to reprint them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, he’s just glad he still gets to spend time with Sasha. It’s the same as it always is, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything, even as shit starts to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> weird. He worries about her, sometimes, about the way she just throws herself into follow-up investigations with reckless abandon, and it triggers some deep, frigid, clawing fear deep in him, some impending sense of dread he can’t drink or masturbate or research away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like he can tell her to be careful. She’d just laugh at him. Besides, she really loves learning things, specifically about people, specifically in vaguely illicit ways, and this job definitely lets her do that, and who’s he to keep her from something she enjoys? He loves her. She should be happy. He can fight the intrusive thoughts down, that horrible falling feeling he got the night Danny died. Lightning can’t strike two different people in the same spot, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a stage and an audience made of stone and a spotlight and a bloodied clown dragging itself across the floorboards and Sasha and then not Sasha and Tim wakes up screaming her name until his throat feels like it’s full of white-hot knives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corkscrew holes still ache. The trauma’s all </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>fresh, even if the memories are faded by unfortunate amounts of CO2 and mind-erasing fear. Sasha saved his life, though, he knows that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They haven’t really talked since Prentiss, and it feels like a loss, somehow. He’s sure it’s just...it’s just them being caught up in processing everything that just happened, but...he can’t shake the feeling something’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which is a stupid thought, because of course something’s wrong, they got attacked by--by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>worm woman</span>
  </em>
  <span> who nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the dream. It’s just the dream. He has it whenever he tries to sleep. Frozen there while he loses someone else he can’t live without. At least he’s better off than Jon, fucked-up and terrified and paranoid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ll all pull through. What’s the other option?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s dating someone. Sasha’s dating someone and she’s shit at computers all of a sudden and she and Tim don’t talk like they used to and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to get as paranoid as Jon but it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or...or he let his sense of self or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> this is get too wrapped up in his relationship with Sasha. Maybe he let himself believe that--that they were completely made for each other, and that she’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be with anyone else, and he’s just taking it badly now that she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christ. He’s such a delusional, selfish fucking tool. Things are just different now, but, whatever, it’s fine, they’ll get through it. She’s still Sasha. He still loves her. The burning, aching jealousy doesn’t change anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still has the dream, except that the woman on the stage doesn’t look like the Sasha he sees every day, but his subconscious still tells him it’s her. He’d like to have a good long talk with Freud. Maybe get in a couple punches or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who does he even miss? He can’t remember her face. He can’t remember the way she smelled or the size of her hands or what color her eyes were or the way she said his name. It’s like she never existed, like she’s just...just a blank void in his life that he assigned meaning to. She was everything to him, and the thing that killed her and wore her name rendered her less than nothing, a fucking un-person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he and Martin get out of the hallways, after Leitner, after--</span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span>--he dreams of Danny and Sasha on the other side of a crowded street, obscured by people, until he can’t pick their faces out of the mass and they’re lost to him forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The part of him that still ran on love died. All that’s left is anger. At himself, at Jon, at everything that moves and breathes and everything that doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing left to trust. He lost two of his favorite people to the same shapeless amorphous piece of eldritch shit fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>cunt </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it took them from right under his nose while he was looking </span>
  <em>
    <span>straight</span>
  </em>
  <span> at them and he will burn the goddamned world to its </span>
  <em>
    <span>core</span>
  </em>
  <span> just to cause this thing even a fraction of the pain it’s caused him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even remember what the last thing he said to Sasha was. He doesn’t really want to. Doesn’t need anything more to torture himself with. The question still nags at him. He’s sure she knows he loved her. Doesn’t know what difference that makes. Nothing makes a fucking difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, well, if he’s gonna be the tragic wrecking-ball washed-up antihero of this shittily plotted postmodern five-car pileup of a performance his life’s become, then, well. It’s like Danny said before he died, if that even </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The show must go on.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! All feedback is greatly appreciated &lt;3<br/>Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend</p></blockquote></div></div>
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